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All night Tippi and I lie with our armswrapped around each otherlike rope.I bury my face in her neckand she wakes every now and thento kiss the top of my head
I have been here once before – It was a long time ago, I don't remember when.But as my father handed me the axe-headImages exploded in my brain.
Tippi can't stand clowns.Dragon is terrified of cockroachesand Mom of mice.Dad pretends to be fearless,though I've seen him flinch when the mail arrivesseen him hide
The building is white,ivy eating its way up the broken walls,windows smalland scratched.
The walls of the room are white and clean -all sign's of yesterdays sorrows scrubbedaway with bleach.
She is not here.Not beside me in bednor in the roomat all.
It has happened
We watch them, hypnotized.Pale and mysterious,They rise and fall. Joe says“They look like ghosts.”
When they were young,She kept wicket for her brothers,They batted,Bowled,Padded upAnd ratcheted up the score.She crouched behind the stumpsKeeping wicket.
I was born with a map of Australia on my face;it was beautiful, my mother told me – there was nobody like me in the whole wide worldwho could trace the edges of down under
My Gran was a Caribbean ladyAs Caribbean as could beShe came across to visit usIn Shoreham by the sea.